Downbeat: When the Trout Win
How a long day ruined my perfect record...and taught me something
There’s an old truth in fly fishing that veteran anglers whisper to newcomers with a kind of knowing smirk:
“If you haven’t been skunked yet, it’s only because you haven’t been fishing long enough.”
I’ve heard the saying more times than I can count. I’ve even repeated it myself to other fly fishers with the warm confidence of someone who understood, but had never personally experienced its sting.
At 66 years old, after decades on the water, I honestly thought I might be the exception. I’ve chased trout from one end of the West to the other and somehow always walked away with at least one fish in the net.
My friends say it’s skill. I say it’s stubbornness, luck, obsessive tinkering and the willingness to fish in questionable weather. Whatever the mix is, it kept my record clean.
I was given the nickname “Blackfoot Bill” years ago on the Blackfoot River in Montana, where the cutthroat and rainbows seemed as eager for my flies as I was to cast them.
I still remember those broad Montana runs glowing under the June sun, the wide arc of a cast, and that sudden tight line confirming another willing trout. That place spoiled me — or maybe enchanted me — but either way, the Blackfoot set the tone for the next several years of my fly-fishing life.
I’m on the right…a big beautiful Brown Trout for “Blackfoot Bill”
From there, I followed trout like the American Pickers guys chasing relics:
• Mammoth Lakes, California, where stubborn Sierra rainbows taught me patience and the importance of switching patterns before frustration sets in.
• The headwaters of the Colorado River in Rocky Mountain National Park, where native trout rise with the same quiet dignity as the peaks that surround them.
• Grand Lake and the waters west of Granby, CO where cold mornings and long battles against tough Colorado rainbows made for some of my favorite days on a fly rod.
And through it all — years of creeks, rivers, lakes, and high-country gems — I had never been skunked. Never. Not once.
Which brings me to 2025.
This year, I joined a private fishing club, tucked just outside Woodland Park, Colorado, about an hour from Colorado Springs.
The 8,000 ft. elevation grounds feature nine lakes, a stream of clear cold water, and several varieties of Trout with enough personality to keep even the most experienced anglers honest.
It quickly became my home water — a place where I could slip in for a few hours, test new patterns, refine old techniques, and, more often than not, enjoy the kind of quiet that only exists when you’re standing alone in a lake surrounded by pines.
Ever seen a Tiger Trout? They fight like hell!
Between August and November, I went 26 times. Twenty-six. Some folks might call that obsessive; I prefer to call it “enthusiastically retired.” Across those outings, I netted (and gently released) over 190 Trout, and every trip produced at least a few.
My record was intact. My confidence (maybe even a little ego) was intact. All was right with the world.
Until the very last outing of the year.
It was mid November, the air sharp enough to slice through jacket layers, the water low and slow, and the trout acting like they’d all agreed to take a vow of silence.
My buddy and I arrived early, each armed with our tried-and-true setups, cold fingers, warm coffee, and a friendly sense of competition. We always keep things light, but between the two of us, no one wants to be the one who catches fewer fish.
I started with “midges” (a tiny, mosquito-like bug on little tiny hooks that you can barely see, but that fish feed on all day). Nothing. Switched to a “dry fly” (a little bigger fly that looks like a mayfly or a grasshopper - it stays on top of the water, hence the moniker “dry fly”). Nothing.
Tried smaller line (aka “tippet”), getting my fly to go deeper in the water, different kinds and sizes of flies. Still nothing.
I changed my casting technique, cursed quietly, changed spots, muttered to the fish about cooperation, and even tried the “one last cast” routine (five times).
Meanwhile, my buddy, standing a few yards away, hooked his first trout before I had even settled into my second fly change. Then another. And another. By lunchtime, he was up to six. By late afternoon, he had caught twelve.
I had caught zero.
I think the smile says it all…so smug!
I kept telling myself it was the weather. Or the pressure change. Or the time of year. Or the water temperature. Or maybe the trout simply didn’t like my jacket color.
I cycled through so many theories I could have written a dissertation on why fish don’t eat on the last day of the season, or at least why they didn’t eat my flies.
And then it hit me. Not a fish, unfortunately, just the truth:
I was being skunked. For the first time in my life.
The 90-minute drive home was… educational. My buddy, bless his heart, found a dozen different ways to recount each of the twelve fish he caught.
I learned about every rise, every strike, every head shake, every net moment, and every joke he was saving for the right time.
He had clearly been waiting years to hold this over me. And honestly, he earned it.
Sitting there, listening to his play-by-play, I realized something: it’s good to be humbled once in a while. As fly fishers, we talk about respecting the water, respecting the fish, respecting the seasons, but sometimes we forget that the fish have a say in the matter.
After decades of chasing down trout in Montana, California, and every corner of Colorado, it was a final-day November outing in Woodland Park that reminded me:
You’re not in control — you’re just lucky to be invited.
Even without a fish in the net, it’s still one of the most peaceful places on Earth - my Disneyland!
Fishing is done until April. The gear is tucked away. The lakes are quiet and cold.
And I have an entire winter ahead of me to tie flies for next year and think about that last trip. But here’s the thing:
I’ll be back at it the moment spring loosens winter’s grip. Rod in hand. Flies organized. Ego recalibrated. And absolutely ready for redemption.
If the trout decide to cooperate? Great.
If not? Well… I’ve already survived my first skunking.
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Keep going (if you have 5 more minutes):
Downbeat: The Drones Are Winning
Friday Takeaway: Costco Samples Are Now a Full-Contact Sport
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Great story. My past husband was an avid fly fisherman. My son also has a love for fly fishing. You could come east and try some of the waters around Brevard, NC. They fish year round there.